The Durkenai of the Sacred Valley
by PeterLion
Summary: Very short epilogue to my previous story, Durc.


The sun was setting far away to the east on the desolate steppe horizon, its last weak red rays barely warming the skin of the incredibly old man sitting on a big rock at the edge of the cliff. The rock was so big and so out of place that it was obvious it did not belong there. It had taken many young and strong men with the help of many horses and almost an entire moon of communitarian effort to carry it from the bottom of the narrow valley to the highest point of the cliff. It had taken many weeks of hard work by many of the best stone workers to carve two back to back seats on it, one facing east towards the valley, one facing west towards the sunset. So much work for so little usefulness; but it had been a work of love, and the old man knew it. He could feel the love of his people in every aching bone of his old body and in every small part of his incredibly wrinkled skin, in every mouthful of food he ate and even in the very air he breathed. He could feel it in the luxuriant clothes he wore and the delicate implements he used, all made for him by his people; but most of all, he could feel it in the way they revered and pampered him.

Thanking Ursus for his reasonably good eyesight, despite his age, the old man observed as the big red setting sun touched the horizon and noted the exact place, just as he had done every day since he arrived to this valley so many years ago. None of his friends and family, who had reached the valley with him, still survived; not even his own sons and daughters who were born there. He was the last of the Old Fathers, a living spirit, a legend in all the neighboring regions, the most sacred living man; but he did not think of himself that way. He saw himself just as an old man who had lived longer than he should and who now was just waiting for Ursus to come and take him back to the Great Earth Mother, to the world of the spirits where his beloved wife and children waited for him; where he would at last, after all these years, get to see his mother again.

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Marc saw the torches being lit at the top of the cliff and turned to look at Deena, standing by his side.

- "He shouldn't be allowed to go up there anymore," said a very worried leader, "He is way too old. He could fall coming down from the cliff and crossing the river this late cannot be good for His health."

- "There is nothing we can do about it," countered his twin sister and co-leader, "He does as He pleases, when He pleases and just because He pleases; we can only help Him and look after Him. I wouldn't dare to tell Him what to do, much less what not to do. Besides, He is not going to get wet; Borc and Luna will carry Him down the cliff, across the river and all the way up to the sacred cave."

- "He shouldn't live in that cold cave either," insisted Marc, "He should come down to the lodge, at least in winter. Some midwinter days it is impossible to reach the cave. What if He gets sick and needs help? What will we do if He dies?"

- "He won't die, my dear brother, he has outlived all the leaders before us and he will outlive us as well. He is the Son of the Great Earth Mother, born to the spirit of Ursus. He will live forever."

The two leaders of the Durkenai watched as the tiny flickering light of the torches began to move, meaning that their Old Father and his two acolytes had began the descent to the valley on their way to the small Sacred Cave located high on the opposite bank and tried to control their worries. The idea of losing their spiritual leader had haunted Marc ever since the ceremony that made of him and his twin sister the leaders of the most important esoteric community of the region.

But he needed to dismiss the bad thoughts, he needed his mind to be clear and rested. Soon, The Old Father would announce the end of fall and he would have to preside, along with his sister, over a whole week of winter-related ceremonies. Two young would-be mamuts, one sungae, one sabani and two mog-urs were to winter with them. There were also two pairs of mamutoi brothers and sisters, as well as two other young sungaea and one young sabanii, future leaders of their camps all of them. Those youngsters were not to return to their people until after the Spring Festival. No magician, these days, was put in charge of the spiritual matters of his or her people before spending a full year training at The Sacred Valley. No leader could expect to ever preside over the council of brothers, or sisters, or elders, unless his or her training had included a year spent with the Durkenai.

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The sun had disappeared when the old man stood up to return to his hearth in the Sacred Cave. The two youngsters that always accompanied him, each one carrying a torch to light their way, were quick to take him by both of his arms, helping him to stand up and guiding him to the narrow path down the cliff. Just before beginning the descent, the Old Father stopped and turned around to smell the air. It was late fall and the air smelled of snow. Winter, with its heavy snowstorms and harsh winds, would be settling in soon in the territory of the Durkenai of the Sacred Valley of the Horses; and Old Father Durc knew this was going to be his last one.

**The End**


End file.
